In the Eye of the Bee-holder

All the words that people sayin’;
all the places you can’t stay in;
all the plans that mice are layin’;
all the Ables; all the Cains;
all the thunder; all the rain
over mountain. Over plains.
Over you.

Al the subterranean slavin’.
Day out and day in.
All the prayers that people prayin’;
all the churches that they pray in;
all the stock; all the terrain.
Gone in Kansas – found in Main
without shoes.

All the Danish that predane
all the Spaniards there in Spain.
If you’d weigh ‘em, they’re a grain.
In Augusta; in Albane:
alright’n ‘n’ OK’n.
Just a small head. Gust of wind.
Set a sailin’

Aperture

If you knew what a joy it is to see ya’,
you would limit your exposure to the world.

If you knew how many wanna be ya’,
you’d say: the aperture’s too high as I excel.

When you smile, everyone is happy
to be shone, alit, awhile by your pearly whites.

Eight miles high – you and sister Kappy,
re-defining multitude as a human rite.

https://explorer.poetnetwork.net/works/1da3b16a13b56e3fd98789e9c885533a6abdbf15088fd3bfd5328ed0af2d08f5